Smash the Stache

The New York Times is up in arms about Bush pushing John Bolton's appointment as UN ambassador through while Congress was in recess. If you ask me, they're pissed off for all the wrong reasons. I don't understand why everyone is dancing around the obvious issue with the Bolton appointment: his huge, freak-show, puts-Tom-Selleck-to-shame mustache.

Good lord! I mean, look at that thing. How can we exptect any serious diplomacy to happen with that giant cookie-duster swinging around? Is this really the face we want to represent our nation at the UN? (Well, what little face there is peeking out around the edges of that enormous shag-carpet welcome-mat he has guarding his nostrils.)

What does that thing say about Bolton's ability to present our nation in a favorable light to the rest of the world? After all, the man gets up every morning and looks in the mirror, knowing full well that he will be filmed and photographed all day, and that those images will find their way into millions of homes around the world through television and in print. He takes in his ghastly visage, which gives the appearance of his nose having vomitted hair all over his upper lip, and asks himself, "Hmm... is there anything I should change about my appearance today? Nope. Lookin' good, John!" Does this really sound like a man who sees all sides of an issue? A man suited to advocate? I think not.

Moreover, the 'stache will be a logistical nightmare. When Bolton is dining with foreign dignitaries, we will have to hire two people to stand on either side of his face to hold his mustache back during the soup course so it doesn't get wet. And every day he shows up to work, guys with haz-mat suits and machetes will have to climb into his mustache to make sure he isn't hiding WMD's or harboring terrorists in there. The cost to tax-payers will be astronomical.

The New York Times is right to be concerned about Bolton, but let's all be honest about the real issue here. We shouldn't even begin to discuss his temperament and management style until somebody has taken a rider lawn-mower to his upper lip.